


It's always dawn before the dark

by Beleriandings



Series: In the midst of the innumerable stars [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Gen, Nirnaeth Arnoediad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 13:40:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3070274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Union of Maedhros is strong, this he knows. And yet, as his war fleet approaches orbit around the dark planet Angband, High King Fingon cannot help but worry about the unexplained radio silence from his cousin and what it may mean. But in the shadow of the great planet of the Enemy, amidst the radioactive gas and dust, other schemes and plots await...</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's always dawn before the dark

Fingon stood alone on the observation deck, staring out of the wide window anxiously. It was the largest window on the ship, flawless and panoramic. The view through it would have looked almost beautiful, he thought, if he had not known what he was looking at.

Their war fleet was passing through the Anfauglith belt, each ship’s impact detection system on level 3 alert, the highest. The red light blinked softly on the console in the corner of Fingon’s vision, as he watched the asteroids pass them by on either side, illuminated by distant Anar at their backs.

The ships’ pilots were good at their jobs, there was no need to worry, he knew. Worrying was for later. He thought of Maedhros then.  _The plan will work_ , Fingon had told him, more times than he could count, and Maedhros had said the words back to him. They had whispered it to each other like a litany, like a prayer.

They were passing out of the asteroid belt now, Fingon judged; he could see the great black planet Angband in the distance, ahead. Once Fingon’s fleet was in orbit, they must wait for the signal, and then open the carrier bays simultaneously, allowing the attack rangers to spill out towards the planet’s surface.

The signal was to be Maedhros turning on his radio beacon, once the Fëanorian host had reached the Dorthonion ring, behind Fingon’s first wave. Fingon swallowed, thinking of the ring of radioactive dust and particulate material that was all that was left of the great planet Dorthonion, bulwark of the outer Beleriand system, once held by his cousins Angrod and Aegnor. Morgoth’s nuclear missiles had reduced it to a vast cloud of intensely radioactive debris in mere seconds, which had formed a ring of its own and contaminated the Ard-galen asteroid belt with its larger pieces, prompting the name change. Anfauglith seemed to suit it a lot better these days. 

He merely hoped that this time they took Angband by surprise, and that the targets they presented were small enough that Morgoth would be forced to send out orcs in battle rangers into space, surprised and too ill-prepared for the attack to send out his heavy missile fleet.

Maedhros’ fleet would clear the orcs out of orbit then, he told himself. _Wherever Maedhros’ fleet was._ They had lost radio contact about twenty minutes ago, which was nothing to be alarmed about per se, but Fingon was nervous still, pacing restlessly to and fro before the window as they drew near the dark planet. He frowned, remembering all those years ago when he had stolen his father’s beat-up ranger and flown solo into orbit around Angband, then straight down to its surface, where he had promptly crash landed.

He had felt almost safe, then, at least much safer than he did now. Although, he thought ruefully, he had been little more than a clueless kid with no experience of war back then, born up by the righteous anger at Maedhros’ capture, and his need to be a hero. He had felt indestructible. He had not, however, thought to check the surface gravity before he left, nor had he known the extent to which his shielding would burn up in the atmosphere… if not for Manwë sending his Thorondor search and rescue droid, he would likely be dead along with Maedhros.  _Perhaps that is what experience and kingship and careful planning does_ , he thought bitterly.  _Keeps you are a little safer, while making you feel a whole lot more vulnerable._

Fingon gritted his teeth. They knew the conditions now, he thought, they were prepared, and armed too. And even with the radio malfunction, there was no reason to suppose that anything should go wrong. He forced himself to smile and still his pacing, fixing his eyes on the planet up ahead. They were coming out of the Anfauglith belt now, the danger of the asteroids behind them.

The com crackled into life. “Your highness, Húrin reporting. We’re just coming in on your tail, on course for orbit. We’re going to fire up the engines and ease in behind you, and Gwindor’s ship behind us, and so on until the whole fleet’s in orbit.”

“Good” said Fingon, relieved to hear the well-known plan repeated back to him once more. “How do things look from where you are?”

"They look fine, so far. Everyone’s in position and the conditions seem perfect." Húrin’s voice was a little hesitant, as though he could not quite believe it. “All well down there?”

“Looks it from here. Thank you, Húrin.”

“Any news from Lord Maedhros and his people?”

“None yet. Radio malfunction, I would guess. Their transmitters, since ours seem to be working just fine. Maglor and his telecom people should get it working again soon, in time to start broadcasting the beacon signal as planned.” It was reassuring merely to say the words.

“Right you are, my king. Over and out.”

And then the connection was cut off and Fingon was left alone again.

For something to do, Fingon pulled up the holoconsole in front of him, narrowing his eyes as he scrutinised the glowing dots that marked the positions of their ships, steadily approaching the planet traced in pale blue-white gridlines, the coordinates that flicked over as he watched.

“How long till we’re in orbit?” he asked the console.

“Five minutes until planned orbit” said the cool female voice of the console, and Fingon nodded, although there was no one who would catch the motion. He sighed, flexing his fingers and missing the responsiveness of the controls of his own little battle ranger, the  _Valiant-II_.  _Soon_ , he thought.  _Soon I will put on my helm and gloves and strap myself into the seat and fly out to the surface with the rest._ That time couldn’t come soon enough for him.

“How long till orbit now?”

The console’s voice was implacable. “Four minutes until planned orbit.”

———

They were in orbit, the dark, roiling surface of Angband’s thick, torturously toxic atmosphere looming large and close.

It was understandable, Fingon told himself in mounting anxiety, that Maedhros should not be radioing them. They were on the other side of the planet now; they were in the radio blackout window anyway. 

The thought failed to comfort him as much as it should.

“Console, where would Lord Maedhros’ fleet be now if they were… by the official plan, I mean?”

The console whirred. “They were due for arrival at the Dorthonion ring twenty-six minutes ago.”

They hadn’t been in the blackout zone yet then, thought Fingon; if Maedhros had made a transmission they should have received it. “Right. And  _did_  they arrive?”

“The radio beacon signal was not detected.”

Fingon resisted the urge to kick the projection unit for the hologram; from experience, he knew it would only hurt his foot.

Then the console whirred again. “Incoming radio signal. Requesting a two-way link.”

Fingon’s heart lifted suddenly. “What transmission frequency?”

“145.825 megahertz.”

Fingon frowned. Maedhros’ signal beacon transmitted at 143.722, a number that was engraved onto Fingon’s very heart. “So who’s transmitting?”

A pause. “Unknown.”

“Alright.”  _Not Morgoth then._  He fidgeted with a braid of his hair thoughtfully. “Put me through.” He spoke into the microphone now. “This is the high king of the Ñoldor, in Angband orbit. State your name and allegiance, or we will assume you are a hostile faction.”

Nothing could have prepared him for the quiet voice he heard on the other end. “Findekáno?”

He blinked for a moment. “Turukáno? I… what are you  _doing_  here?” He realised he had switched to Quenya in his shock, which seemed somehow right. He scowled. “And where in the eternal depths of the Void do you think you’ve  _been_  all this time?”

There was a pause, a shuffling on the other end of the line. “Where I’ve been is not important. What matters is - ”

“ _Not important?_ ” interrupted Fingon, suddenly furious. “You disappeared from the whole system, for all these years. No warning, no communication, radar blocked in a whole swathe of orbits…” he balled his hands into fists, “…and suddenly you just turn up and say it’s  _not important_?”

“If you would like to  _listen_  to me” said Turgon stiffly, reminding Fingon forcibly and infuriatingly of when they were children, “I was just about to tell you to  _look out your window_.”

“What are you…”

“Look, Finno. Trust me, I know I haven’t been much… any… help, and that you have no reason to trust me, really, but… I am bringing you help _now_. I know what you are trying to do, and you need me.”

“Help?” Fingon’s eyes narrowed. “What help? Where are you?”

“You still have that ship with the wide window, that father had built?”

“Yes, but…”

“ _Look out of it._ ”

Fingon turned, slowly, and looked.

At first he saw only the grey-black swirling surface of the planet’s atmosphere, lit from within by restless lightning. They were on the far side from the light of Anar, but through the atmosphere he could just see the glow of the star appearing at the rim, a ring around the planet with a bright glimmer at the leading edge… suddenly the star flared into view, the light illuminating Fingon’s face, blinding him momentarily. When the pale spots in his vision cleared, he saw the light glancing off something else, no, many things, small, bright dots in the light, formation flying into an orbit just above their own.

 _Ships_ , Fingon realised, joy kindling within him.  _A whole fleet_.

“The power of Gondolin is at your disposal, brother” said Turgon, breaking into his reverie.

“Turno” Fingon said, unsteadily into the com, “you’re… you’re not forgiven quite yet. We can save that for when Angband is conquered. But… thank you.” There was laughter in his voice, triumph. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a broadcast to make.”

Turgon disconnected, and Fingon pulled on his gloves, knowing that he would be going soon, going to fight, truly fight, alongside his brother. No more hiding and skulking, no more scrabbling for territory only to be beaten back. They would make an end to it, once and for all. He put on his helmet.

“Console, put me on the video coms in every command centre, flight module and ranger in this fleet. By the Void, broadcast this down to Angband too. Let them see. Let them  _fear_.”

“You are live in 3… 2… 1…”

Fingon stood in front of the camera and raised his face up to the light.

 _“Utúlie’n aurë! Aiya Eldalië ar Atanatári, utúlie’n aurë!_  The day has come! Behold, people of the Eldar and Fathers of Men, the day has come!”

He repeated it in both languages; the words seemed to come to him from he knew not where as the light played across his face.

The console made the same whirring sound again. “There are answers queued from the different ships in the fleet. Order in which to play them?”

“Any order. Play them all at once.” He felt almost giddy with the fierce, renewed resolve coursing through him.

A click from the console, then a crackling voice; “ _Auta i lómë!”_

Another. _“_ The night is passing!”

The words rose together from every ship in the fleet, a chorus of different voices and languages, and for a moment, Fingon was more certain that they were right than he was of anything else in the world.


End file.
